


Time, give me my yesterdays

by carrotjus



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Nonbinary Jaskier | Dandelion, Other, Sad Ending, like unbox this and discover who is playing the sad trumpet!, the rest is a surprise
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-13
Updated: 2020-09-13
Packaged: 2021-03-06 19:33:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26444224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/carrotjus/pseuds/carrotjus
Summary: He leans closer to his white wolf until he is able to pat Geralt's chest. Right where the slow thudding heart hides. "You have my whole heart," Jaskier tells him. "Until the end."And this, unfortunately, is where it ends.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 10
Kudos: 74





	Time, give me my yesterdays

**Author's Note:**

> i posted this once and then took it down not long after because it sucked cocks. so now here's me posting a prettier version (i suppose) of it.
> 
> based vaguely on hozier's like real people do.
> 
> with title from in the light by the lumineers.
> 
> and with my nonbinary jaskier headcanon because i'm nonbinary and would like to be represented by this bumbling idiot.

Strong winds brush gently against his exposed skin and there is a hint of something in the air—something he cannot quite put a name to. Perhaps it is the sweet taste of a fruit he has long forgotten or even the bitter tang of a medicine he once tasted. He does not know. And he thinks, for a short moment, he may never know.

Nevertheless, it remains familiar to him.

And his eyes slide open at the hint of familiarity. He blinks once, then twice as he tries to adjust his vision to the sudden onslaught of brightness.

Jaskier finds himself standing in a field, dressed simply in a white shirt and mud brown trousers. Familiar flowers bloom all around him as if in the height of spring. He sees clumps of daffodils not too far from where he stands, winking between blades of greens that come up to his knees. And he glimpses rows after rows of vibrant orange flowers that he has never seen before lining the edge of the field.

He does not know where he is.

Nor does he remember the details of his journey here.

Almost immediately, panic wells up in him, choking him as it claws through his throat. But when his eyes dart around the field and fall on the familiar white hair, the double swords, the studded leather armour, he relaxes. Then, much like a reflex, one of his hands drifts to palm the pocket of his trousers and he breathes out a slow breath when the item hidden inside of it digs into his skin.

He allows it to remain hidden. _Just a bit longer_ , Jaskier tells himself.

And it does not matter, he thinks. Neither how he came to this field nor why he is here in the first place. Because his white wolf is here with him, only mere steps away from where he stands.

He is alright.

 _They_ are alright.

One corner of his lips tilts into a small private smile as he takes one step forward. Then another and another until he is standing a little less than five feet away from Geralt. His white wolf. His heart.

This close, he notices how those broad shoulders are slumped as if the weight of the entire world has finally caught up to his white wolf. And he notices the hole that is large enough to fit a human, seeming freshly dug and lays open only a step away from Geralt.

His smile twitches into a frown and he takes another step forward.

“Geralt?”

His white wolf swivels around almost violently at the sound of his voice, amber eyes wide open and nostrils flaring. And he recognizes this look on Geralt. The look of a witcher being confronted by something they have failed to detect with their heightened senses.

“It’s just me, love,” he says softly as he holds his hands up in a placating gesture. “No one else. Only your sweet old bard.”

Jaskier begins to set one foot in front of the other but halts immediately when he catches how his white wolf tenses at his every move. For a long quiet moment, he waits. And he thinks he will wait forever if that is how long Geralt needs.

“It’s really you, isn’t it?” Geralt asks in a voice barely above a whisper. There is a faint tremble in his voice and he sounds hoarse as if he spent an entire century crying. “You’re here.”

Jaskier raises his brows. “Of course, I’m here. You know I’d never leave you.”

A long and heavy pause settles between them as amber eyes stare into glittering blue ones. The winds grow harsher around them as if someone has angered the gods hiding in the clouds and then the sky turns a darker colour despite the blazing sun. All the while, amber eyes pin Jaskier where he stands and he catches flashes of emotions in them.

Grief. Pain. Confusion.

Grief. Pain. Confusion.

Then slowly, understanding comes forth.

“You’re here,” his white wolf whispers once more.

And when Jaskier is deep in confusion, blinking multiple times as he tries to register the spoken words along with the disbelief curling around them, Geralt is striding toward him and does not stop until they are close enough for rough hands to pull Jaskier into a bruising kiss. A startled gasp escapes his lips but Jaskier does not move to pull away. Instead, he melts into the warmth of his white wolf as strong arms wind themselves around his waist, pulling him in closer. And closer.

There is desperation in the action, he thinks. Much like their first kiss. But, he notes, there is also a tenderness in it that can only be perfected over years of moulding their bodies together and memorizing the taste of each other with the tips of their tongues.

 _This is home_ , he tells himself. _I am home._

Too quickly, Geralt breaks the kiss but he does not slip far and after a moment, he leans forward again to press their foreheads lightly together with a contented hum. And they stay as such for some time, staring at one another as if they have been apart for far too long.

Jaskier clears his throat and takes in a deep breath. “Are you alright?”

“I am now.”

Geralt’s words as well as his desperation confuse Jaskier more than he will admit. But he decides not to push because his white wolf is with him. Nothing else matters quite as much, he thinks.

“Were you digging for something?” he asks quietly.

Geralt shakes his head at the question, his brows knotting together and his face pinching as if he is suddenly engulfed in excruciating pain. But it is gone before Jaskier can inquire any more and Geralt presses a chaste kiss to the corner of his lips. Then, his cheek and the tip of his nose.

“Will you trust me?”

“I always have, my darling.”

“Wait for me over there, then. Under the tree,” Geralt tells him and nods to somewhere behind him. “You don’t want to see this.”

“Alright,” he hums in return and squeezes rough hands with his slightly softer ones. A carcass of a monster, he supposes. Geralt knows he never has the stomach for blood and gore. “Take your time. I’ll be here.”

Three days pass and the two of them find themselves sprawled on the bed of a rented room in a little village with no name to offer. Jaskier has his head pillowed on his white wolf’s stomach with his feet dangling from the edge of the bed. His lute lays heavily on his own stomach and his fingers pluck gentle tunes from the strings every few moments.

Geralt, on the other hand, lays perpendicular to the bard with his fingers tangled in Jaskier’s hair as he strokes gently through, a soft hum escaping his lips which brings a smile to Jaskier’s face. He lays on his back, almost unmoving so as to not disturb Jaskier and for a long while, they bask in the warm and welcoming silence.

As lovely as this feels though, something niggles at the back of Jaskier’s mind. Enough for him to break the silence with more than simple tunes.

“I have to admit,” he starts softly, eyes staring up at the ceiling above them. “You’ve been acting a bit weird lately. Not a bad weird— _well_ , not for me at least.”

It is not an accusation. Only a simple revelation but perhaps, it does not come out sounding as such because the gentle strokes halt and the fingers still in his hair. When he feels the air between them tensing, Jaskier reaches up to tangle their fingers together. Then, he brings their hands to his lips to plant small kisses on scarred knuckles.

“How do you mean?” his white wolf asks quietly as if afraid of what his answer may be.

Jaskier nods to the only window in the room where sunlight still filters through and into the small space that they share. “It’s unlike you to be wasting daylight,” he says. “And I’m almost certain the village could use my incredibly brave and handsome witcher for a problem or two.”

Geralt hums in return and Jaskier guesses he has chosen the right words for his white wolf when the gentle strokes resume.

“I’m brave and handsome?” Geralt asks, his voice rough and low. The voice that he knows will have the bard’s toes curling.

Jaskier laughs instead with genuine delight as his fingers return to the strings of his instrument. He begins to pluck an old tune familiar to both his and Geralt’s ears. “Tell me, white wolf,” he coaxes. “Tell me why we’re here in our sweet little bubble and not out there, ankle-deep in mud with bugs in our clothes.”

“I just want to be with you today,” Geralt admits quietly. “Is that bad?”

“If I were Vesemir, I’d say something like— _witchers should care for nothing but coins and brothels!_ But fortunately for you, I’m not. Fortunately for you, I’m young and dashing and in love with you. So I say that there’s absolutely nothing bad about taking time off to spend it with your lovely partner.”

“I love you,” Geralt whispers with sudden seriousness as his fingers trail down to trace the small scar on Jaskier’s chin from a fight the bard has long forgotten. “You know that, right?”

 _What?_ Jaskier wants to say. _No comeback?_ But he senses this is one conversation he must not accept with humour. “Of course,” he answers instead with a smile. “Hard to forget. And I, you, darling.”

His white wolf hums, contented. “I know.”

Jaskier sits up then as the sudden urge to have a proper look at Geralt almost overwhelms him. And bright blues take the man in slowly, just as mesmerized as he was the day their paths crossed in that small tavern so many years ago. He loves him, Jaskier thinks. Loves his white wolf with his entire heart, may it be for when Geralt is only rough edges and boorish grunts, or even when he is all soft and pliant.

He leans closer to his white wolf until he is able to softly pat Geralt’s chest. Right where the slow thudding heart hides. “You have my whole heart,” Jaskier tells him. “Until the end.”

At that, he catches how the corner of Geralt’s lips tilts downward for a flashing second before the frown disappears. His head cants to the side, brows raised but before he is able to ask Geralt, his white wolf poses a question of his own instead.

“Will you sing to me?”

Jaskier grins. “Oh, you’re full of surprises today, my love. What would you like to hear?”

When the bard settles his fingers properly on the strings, Geralt immediately shakes his head. “Just you,” he says. “I want to hear you.”

“As you wish, then,” he agrees before propping the lute carefully against the edge of the bed. Then, he moves to settle himself against the headboard with Geralt’s head in his lap and his fingers buried in white hair. “Any requests, darling?”

“Sing to me what your mother used to sing to you,” Geralt tells him. Then, quieter, “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For loving me as you have.”

Jaskier wears the yellow doublet he finds tucked deep inside his white wolf’s pack. How it comes to be in there in the first place, he has not a clue but he loves it. As much as he loves his finely-crafted lute even. The fabric is gentle against his skin and the embroidery is subtle on the sleeves yet enough to draw attention to him—and what sort of an entertainer would he be if he despises attention? With attention, he thinks, comes coins.

“This must’ve cost a fortune,” he had murmured when he found the clothing, coming to the conclusion that his white wolf must have bought it for him because Jaskier neither remembers lifting it off a rack nor paying for it. He had turned to Geralt after and with a smile, had thanked him.

And he cherishes every thread the best he can as they carry on with their journey.

But there is a stain on it now as well as his white shirt, telling him that his best is not enough. There are specks of perhaps, jam or sauce splattered on a single spot on both of his clothing. They taint the area of the chest an ugly shade and Jaskier seems to not be able to wash it off. No matter how vigorously he scrubs at the stain nor how much soap and oil he rubs on it.

“Fuck,” he huffs as he scoops more water from the stream to splash the soap away. “Why, in the world, won’t this wash out?”

“What’s up with you _now_?” Geralt calls out teasingly from their camp. And not a moment later, familiar heavy footsteps thud toward Jaskier until his white wolf is finally standing next to where he kneels on the ground, soaked doublet gripped tightly in one hand. He shivers as the cold morning air blows pass the both of them.

“ _This_ ,” he huffs once more as he holds the doublet up for Geralt’s inspection. “Gods, I’m going to ruin the fabric at this rate and it’s such a lovely one. Not to mention that it’s also my _only_ one. Perhaps I should get another one in the next village, it _is_ getting a little cold and I can’t walk around in this flimsy shirt. Opinions, darling?”

“Perhaps you should get a proper cloak this time,” Geralt grumbles in return but his eyes remain on the doublet, frowning at it as if the thing has managed to insult him. “Or a fancy coat if you’re so eager to waste our coins.”

“No bard worth anyone’s salt prances around the Continent in such ill-favoured fashion, Geralt.”

“May be ill-favoured but it’s…” his white wolf trails off, nostrils flaring as he catches a scent Jaskier is oblivious to and amber eyes glaze over for a moment too long before they focus on Jaskier. “Strong spices, probably. The stain, I mean. It’ll take a few days to wash out.”

He answers Geralt with a frown. Even without heightened senses, he knows a lie when he hears one.

“What are you not telling me, love?”

“Nothing that concerns you.”

And Jaskier hears enough bite in Geralt’s words to stop him from pushing any further. He watches as his white wolf returns to their camp with nothing more than a grunt laden with finality before he blows out the breath he has been holding.

He remains by the stream until the time comes for them to continue on with their journey. And all the while, one of his hands constantly palms the item in his pocket. More out of habit than anything else.

For some reason, he grows tired quicker and much quicker as days pass.

And Geralt cuts their journey shorter and after a while, _much_ shorter.

Jaskier does not understand it. He eats well enough and he drinks plenty of water to keep himself hydrated under the blazing sun but something is wrong with him. His legs begin to tremble every time they travel a little further than yesterday. A bug, he guesses but he does not feel feverish. Only incredibly lethargic.

“Where exactly are we going, darling?” he asks quietly as Geralt busies himself with preparing their camp for the rest of the day. And yes, the sun still shines bright while the sky is as blue as it will ever be. But Jaskier—he feels as if he has walked from one end of the Continent to the other.

“A place you’ll love,” his white wolf replies.

“I’ll love the sewer, Geralt, as long as you’re by my side.”

“I made grand plans for you and it turns out that I only need a sewer.”

“Oh, your humour is definitely improving!” Jaskier exclaims with a laugh until it turns into a coughing fit. His hands fly up to rub his chest with a wince. And in that moment, his instincts whisper to him that this is more than a mere bug.

“Are you alright?” Geralt asks as he crouches next to where Jaskier sits and his hand rubs the bard’s back soothingly. “What do you need, Jask?”

Jaskier does not bother masking his fear as bright blue stares into fierce amber. And with his voice barely above a whisper, he asks, “What’s wrong with me?”

Because he trusts his instincts more than anything else. And just as they had told him moments ago that this is more than a bug. A disease. They are now telling him that his white wolf understands something he does not.

But Geralt does not offer him an answer.

Jaskier tells his white wolf that the stains on his clothing are not washing out—the one on his chest.

It seems to be growing bigger instead. Dark red much like a wine stain than that of spices.

And when night comes enveloping them, Geralt holds him tighter than usual.

There is a bruise on his chest now.

A little to the right from where his heart resides.

“Sit down,” Jaskier demands.

Geralt’s hands still on his mare and for a moment too long, only the crackles of the campfire break the heavy silence between the both of them as the fire laps hungrily at the pile of tinder. The bard tugs Geralt’s borrowed cloak tighter around his hunched figure and he breathes out a heavy breath, eyes staring expectantly at his white wolf from where he sits on a log.

Fatigue consumes Jaskier unlike anything he has ever experienced before, his face pale and his head spinning. But for the moment, he gathers every ounce of strength he has left to focus on this one conversation he is unwilling to avoid any longer.

“Tell me what’s going on, darling.” And he pauses for a short stretch of time to direct a seething glare to his white wolf when Geralt’s lips fall open to quickly interject. “If you try to tell me that everything’s fine once again, Geralt, then I swear on all gods listening in on this conversation that I will find a way to curse you into a toad because everything, Geralt, my dear, is not, in fact, _fine_.”

Geralt’s face is a mask of quiet contemplation as he remains standing next to Roach. Then, quietly, he says, “My cloak is stained now too. On the same spot as your clothes, no less.”

“I—” he stops, brows raised in surprise because that is not exactly the reply he was expecting. “ _What_?”

And Jaskier’s eyes trail down to the familiar red stain on the cloak when his white wolf gestures a hand to his chest. He blinks a few times, trying to comprehend it. _All_ of it. It has been days and the stains on his white shirt as well as his doublet have not wash out—which is not at all abnormal, he thinks. But _this_ —the same stain on Geralt’s cloak that he only recently donned. And, as his white wolf says, on the same spot, no less.

Something eerie is definitely afoot, he jokes to himself but even that is not able to dispel the slight shudder running up his spine.

Heavy footsteps drawing closer makes him return his gaze on Geralt as his white wolf moves forward, closing the distance between them to kneel right in front of him. Callused hands drift up to cup his face before Geralt brings him closer until their foreheads are pressed together and their warm breaths mingle with one another.

“It’s not spice,” Geralt whispers.

“Yes,” he huffs. “I’ve figured as much. Then, tell me what it really is.”

“It’s…” Geralt trails off as a frown begins to mar his face. And here, the bard glimpses hesitation in those amber eyes and it scares him a fraction more. Because Geralt, a witcher from the school of wolves, has never been taught to hesitate. “It’s blood and it’s yours.”

He pulls away abruptly. “Honestly, Geralt, I’m in no mood for—”

“Jaskier, listen to me,” Geralt calls to him while his hands reach out to hold Jaskier in place. “You said you trust me. Jask, trust me now because I can _smell_ it.”

Jaskier’s hand drifts to his chest and he clutches at the patch of stained fabric, breathing heavily. “What—” he stumbles on his own words, brows knotting. “What do you mean? What are you talking about?”

Because he does not remember pain or getting hurt to begin with.

And he is entirely certain he is not bleeding.

“You asked me, in the field, if I was digging for something,” Geralt says quietly, a gentle thumb tracing patterns onto the bard’s skin while his free hand tangles itself into the carob brown locks, bringing Jaskier closer to him once more. “It was for you.”

The creases on Jaskier’s forehead deepen and he pulls back slightly, head canting to the side as he stares at Geralt almost incredulously. “I don’t remember asking you to dig for anything, darling.”

“And that’s your problem right there. You don’t remember,” Geralt replies but not unkindly. “Not everything, at least. Tell me, Jaskier, what _do_ you remember?”

Instinctively, one of his hands falls to his pocket and dazedly, he asks, “Did something happen to me?”

Because Jaskier remembers his white wolf. And he remembers the secret that he holds deep in his pocket for—for far too long now, he thinks.

But nothing else. He remembers nothing more.

Geralt gathers his hands with rough ones and Jaskier notices how his white wolf holds him gingerly as if afraid that he will shatter but he does not push for reasons. Instead, he watches silently as Geralt brings up his hand to press against his own chest.

There is a brief silence in the space between them before Geralt asks, “Can you feel it?”

“Feel what?” Jaskier asks in return but his white wolf only stares at him, amber eyes silently pleading.

And eons pass in heavy silence before Geralt has the bard press his hand harder against his chest.

There is nothing to feel, Jaskier realizes with a start.

No gentle thuds of a beating heart.

His eyes widen and his entire body trembles.

“It was for me,” he echoes Geralt’s earlier statement before a laugh escapes his lips, mirthless and heavy with disbelief. And somehow, he knows what Geralt has failed to tell him. “You were _burying_ me.”

“So,” Jaskier starts quietly as the both of them lay curled together in a single bedroll, eyes trained up to a single hole in the canopy above them to observe the winking stars in the sea of black. He lays on his side, head pillowed on Geralt’s arm while his white wolf silently trails gentle touches up his spine. “What exactly am I?”

Geralt remains quiet for a brief moment longer, stretching the silence between them that has carried on for hours now. The silence is not uncomfortable, or at least, Jaskier does not think so. But he is almost entirely certain that if he allows it to carry on for longer than it is meant to, then they will both lose more than they have to.

“Vesemir calls it _Link_ but it’s a myth. Nothing more than bedtime stories for children and yet,” his white wolf pauses, amber eyes straying from the stars to find his own. “And yet, here you are.”

“Tell me,” he urges gently. “Tell me about this _Link_.”

“It’s known that three hours after midnight, the veil between the living and the dead is at its thinnest. And if one dies in that moment while holding onto something incredibly important to them that ties them still to the living world, they become a _Link_.”

“In conclusion, I am dead and have an unfinished business.”

Geralt laughs softly. “More or less,” he says. And then, “I thought you’d be more torn up when you finally find out about it.”

Jaskier pauses for a moment before he shrugs. “There’s no point losing my head now, is there? I’m long dead but for now, you’re here with me still and I suppose that helps. Even death seems less scary when you’re by my side, darling,” he admits quietly. “This unfinished business of mine, what is it? How long do I have left to settle it? And with how I’m feeling, I don’t imagine I have long.”

“Your essence is beginning to putrefy. That’s why your wound is making itself known,” Geralt tells him before a hand slips to settle against his chest, where deep red still stains his clothing. Where his skin remains bruised and painful. And when Geralt speaks again, he hears how his white wolf’s voice cracks, “It was a sudden death. You probably left with a lot of things unsettled but tell me the most important thing that you remember, Jask.”

And his thoughts immediately drift to the item tucked safely in his pocket.

Jaskier laughs. Even in death, he thinks, he will not leave Geralt be.

“How did I die?” he asks instead.

His white wolf winces and an uncomfortable silence settles between them for a tick too long before Geralt begins to stutter out a response. “It—it was my fault. There were assassins. Too many of them, attacking us at our camp and they—there were just too many. One hid in the trees, tried to shoot an arrow at me but you were there, Jask. It—it pierced your lungs and we were too far away from villages. I should’ve sent you off on Roach first, I should’ve—”

Jaskier shushes him quickly as he sits up and cups Geralt’s face in his hands. “You know I wouldn’t have listened to you and if I have to go, I’m glad it was for protecting you.”

“You didn’t have to die _at all_ if I had been more competent.”

“Shush now, darling, it’s done. And none of it is your fault.” He kisses away the lone tear that escapes his white wolf and whispers, “My heart is still yours, even after the end. Remember that.”

“You have to go,” Geralt whispers brokenly too him and it wrenches at his still heart. He does not want to leave but neither of them has the freedom to choose. What they have in this moment is all that they will ever get with each other. “I’m afraid that if you don’t find your way to the next realm you’ll become one monster I don’t wish to fight.”

Jaskier nods quietly before he offers one hand out to his white wolf for the both of them to sit properly next to one another. His hand falls to his side right after to palm the item hidden in his pocket for the last time.

“I think I was going to ask you about it at some point,” he begins, hesitation clear in his voice. “Gods know I’ve held onto it for far too long.”

Geralt frowns, confused. “What are you on about?”

“My unfinished business,” Jaskier tells him and his hand slips into his pocket, diving deep to fish out the silver band without paying the motion any more thoughts. His eyes flash to the small item cupped in his hand for a moment. It is nothing fancy, he thinks. A simple design etched onto it of a wolf chasing a buttercup around the ring. It is certainly nothing like the jewels he would wear but this one, simple as it is, holds more meaning than anything he has ever worn. 

And carefully, he present the ring to his white wolf.

“ _Jaskier…”_

“I know nothing will come off of this but I need you to know that,” he pauses and clears his throat before grinning. “That it would be a lie to say that I’ve never thought of starting a little family with you.”

Geralt laughs, wet with tears and sorrow. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m sorry we didn’t get more time.”

Then, there is a hand covering Jaskier’s own—the one that is holding out the ring, and there are fingers trailing pass his cheek and into his hair. Amber ones stare into bright blue, both glimmering with tears spilled and unspilled. Their smiles mirror one another, seeming as euphoric as they are sorrowful.

“Wait for me,” Geralt whispers to him, rough hand bringing their faces closer together. “Wait for me to follow you where I cannot now.”

“Moje serce, I will always wait for you.”

When Geralt wakes right as the sun begins its slow climb up into the sky, he neither has to open his eyes nor scents the air to know that he lays alone in the camp. And the space next to him is devoid of familiar curves as well as welcoming warmth.

He huffs out a shaky breath and thinks, he did not even manage to bring his bard to the coast. The place Jaskier loves more than anywhere else— _loved_ , it is now.

His hand drifts up after a good while, reaching for the ring hanging heavy from the chain around his neck. For the finely-crafted silver band—the promise, tucked behind his wolf medallion which no longer hums.

And he holds onto it for centuries to come.

**Author's Note:**

> your thoughts are very much welcome ! x


End file.
